


9 Times Eddie Could’ve Died in Richie’s Arms, and 1 Time He Should’ve But Didn’t

by reallyamerica



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Death Fix, Fix-It, Gen, Happy Ending, Just take it lmao, Losers Club (IT) Friendship, M/M, Reddie, because its what they and we deserve, i don’t even know what to tag this, it chapter 2 - Freeform, up until it’s not
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-08 00:37:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21226901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reallyamerica/pseuds/reallyamerica
Summary: “Richie could remember a little. It was an impression— just a blurry picture of what it felt like to hold some...thing? Someone?Holding, and feeling like he could float, but not in the bad way.He had no idea what the fuck this was supposed to mean, or what the locked parts of his mind were really hiding, but he knew that if he was gonna find out it was gonna be back in stupid Derry.”This is an incredibly self-indulgent fix-it fic, that is canon compliant with It Chapter 2, right up until it isn’t anymore, because I said No Thanks to an unhappy ending for my boys.By the way— it’s not even really a proper 9 times/1 time kind of fic, I’m just terrible at coming up with titles. Oops.





	1. Pt. 1

“She’s just— it doesn’t even make any sense when she— it’s like, like she doesn’t even see how a-an—“

“You know,” Richie said from where he hung upside down off the end of Eddie’s bed reading a comic book, causing the other boy to stop in the middle of his fumbling rant, “If you really wanna get away from Sonia for the night, we _ can _.”

Eddie knew what he was doing. This was one of those (many) times where Richie would extend an offer for some ridiculous plan of escape that they’d never go through with, like running away, but the suggestion always warmed his heart nonetheless. Especially on days when his mom had been screeching and wailing all out in public and working herself up so much over something so small that Eddie felt like he couldn’t breathe—and not because of asthma. 

He rolled his eyes.

“Oh yeah, because you just _ love _ spending time around your mother instead.” Eddie replied, making a little snarky face to accompany the sarcasm. But it wasn’t an outright denial of Richie’s idea.

Popping the gum he was chewing, loudly, Richie pulled himself up into a slouched sit on the bed and arched a brow at his friend.

“Did I say anything about us going to my place?” He pushed his glasses back on his face as he said this.

There was no way this wasn’t going to be ridiculous, Eddie was sure, because that was Richie, but he played along.

“Where to, then? Augusta? New York? San Francisco?? _ London _?!” He asked dramatically. Richie crinkled his nose at him.

“I don’t know what the fuck kind of budget you think we have, but I was thinking more local—an evening in at _ La Casa de los Losers _!” He said, affecting an accent and waggling his fingers to emphasize. When Eddie just furrowed his eyebrows at him and blinked, he continued. “We could camp out at the clubhouse, man. Duh.”

This notion wasn’t entirely stupid...

Sure, it was buggy and dirty there, but Eddie also _ loved _ the place. And it was close enough that if they went they could definitely make it back in the morning before his mom came busting into his room and losing it when he wasn’t in it. Being there alone with Richie in the middle of the night did sound scary, for a number of reasons, but sometimes, and usually only if Richie was involved, the _ smallest _ part of him **wanted** to do things that were scary.

In the time he’d taken to run through these considerations, he hadn’t immediately shot down the plan, and Richie took that as a victory.

“Oh, dude, c’mon, we can take some camping shit and sleep without listening to your mother snore!” He was practically jumping up and down. 

Eddie threw a pillow at him, smiling in spite of himself.

“You’re carrying everything, and if we get caught I’m saying you kidnapped me.”

Eddie made Richie be the one to sneak to the basement, and nearly panicked when he rattled around noisily getting stuff together, but aside from one stutter to his mother's noisy sleep-breathing, it didn’t actually cause any trouble. 

He breathed one small sigh of relief.

When Richie came teetering back up the steps with his arms full, he gave a phony apologetic look and gestured at his haul.

“I found plenty of flashlights and one of those stupid emergency kits like you said, but I only found one sleeping bag.”

Eddie mulled this over for barely a moment.

“It’s fine. I’ll grab some pillows.” Richie seemed to process this response twice before giving back a quick, awkward nod.

They left out the back door, Eddie safety-pinning the spare key to his pajama shorts so as not to lose it, while Richie rolled his eyes. He carried two pillows under each arm. Richie held everything else in a messy bundle in front of him. He led the way.

They bobbed along sidewalks and the road for a while, Eddie mostly staring at the circles of brightness from their flashlights on the pavement and the silhouette of Richie and all their junk within his, following behind. At some point Richie spit his gum onto the grass of someone’s front yard. And then they came to the edge of the trees by the barrens. They’d been here a _ million _ times, but never like this, never this late.

A brief tingle of fear ran up Eddie’s spine. It was so… dark.

Richie seemed to sense his anxiety and moved to bump him with his elbow.

“You alright? Not afraid a werewolf is gonna come after us or something, are you?” He said. He was teasing, but they both knew why fear sat heavy in the pits of their stomachs. They knew all too well how justified that fear could be. Richie had made it clear soon after the events of that summer that he didn’t want to let _ It _ have its way, them still all scared even after It’d slunk away, defeated. That wasn’t fair, they deserved the chance to just be kids. Still, the darkness loomed ahead of them.

Richie didn’t start moving forward again until Eddie nodded real big, and squared his small shoulders.

The sound of dirt and leaves under two sets of feet felt strangely loud in the quiet of the night. It was close enough to fall that there wasn’t really a very steady hum of insects or anything, you could really just hear the occasional bird, and the faint nearby sound of water. That, and _ crunch crunch crunch _.

Richie found the hatch first, tapping against the wood with his foot, but then stepped back and let Eddie open it since he wasn’t holding half as much stuff. 

Eddie almost started yelling when Richie just jumped down, landing with a jangly thud and then turning to look back up at him. Instead he just glared and received a cross-eyed face in return.

They turned on the lantern that was already there (left by Ben, they assumed), and then Eddie went about taking the one and the flashlights that they had brought and setting them up around the clubhouse. It was still really dim, but it was less spooky and more cozy with the spattering of yellow lights.

When he was done, he turned to find Richie propping his battery powered radio up in front of Stan’s anti-spider shower-cap-can, and popping in a cassette tape. But he didn’t turn the music up loud like he usually did, just let it play sort of softly. He still shook his head around and rocked out on air guitar for a moment, though, before facing Eddie.

Richie paused, grinned at him just standing there, then just about _ jumped _ over and spun him around. He was singing along a little bit and Eddie thought he could maybe recognize the song if he paid more attention to the words, but he was focused on Richie jamming out and pulling him around the open center of the clubhouse in a sloppy version of some kinda swing dance. It was dizzying.

_ “What're you doin' tonight, hey boy, write my letter, feel much better, and use my fancy patter on the telephone—!” _

Then suddenly Richie let him go, and dove for the clubhouse hammock with the sleeping bag in his arm, smirking like the devil.

“Dibs!” He called, using his free hand to shoot Eddie a fingergun.

Eddie clambered onto the hammock with him, already going off.

“That is _ not _ how dibs works! You can’t just take all the fucking options! That’s not fair! Besides, the sleeping bag is _ mine _, my initials are on the tag!!” As he leapt basically on top of him, the hammock wobbling beneath them, Richie protected his face with a pillow from Eddie’s fists as he was trying to whack him for being a dumbass (just lightly, of course), and laughed.

“Oh good sir, please have mercy, I just wanted not to sleep on the _ dirt ground _ . Could you ever forgive me? Couldn’t we just _ share _ ? Have you any _ heart _, sir?” Richie mockingly begged, doing an exaggerated Oliver Twist kinda voice. 

Eddie stopped attacking but still crouched above his torso, now holding onto the sides of the hammock.

There was momentary quiet, his very-much-existing heart beating in it.

_ Too loud? _

“Shut up, hows that even supposed to work?” He asked, skeptical. Richie looked at him like he was dense.

“Eds, we’ve shared this hammock like a million times. Just that, plus the sleeping bag. We can get in it, or we can unzip it all the way and use it like a blanket. I don’t really care. I just think this’ll be way more comfy than either of us having to sleep on the ground.”

Eddie knew this to be true. He knew they had spent hours of time crowding each others’ personal space in this hammock. But that had always been with their other friends around. They’d never been here without at least some of the other Losers with them. And more than that, yeah, they’d shared a bed before, tons, but this was different. They were really alone, and not splitting the comparatively big space that a twin sized cot offered, and nobody’s mom was just downstairs. It was just them, together.

** _Just the two of us._ **

… 

Eddie shoved Richie over and flopped down next to him in the hammock.

“I guess you’re right. And don’t call me that.”

“Whatever you say, Eddie Spaghetti.” Richie jerked his shoulder at him, and then reached over the side of the hammock down to his stash of clubhouse stuff and fiddled around until he got ahold of some rock magazine, and pulled it up to page through it.

Eddie lay staring at the crusty ceiling for a while, just listening to the quiet sound of Richie’s music playing from across the space. He didn’t wanna be boring, they’d come all the way out here after all, but he could feel himself getting sleepy. He was too cold to sleep, though, even with the sleeping bag stretched out over he and Richie. Since when did it get so chilly at night? He shivered.

Richie looked over, away from some star posing by a huge amp next to an article about the meaning of a new album, glasses slipping down his nose.

“Cold?”

Eddie nodded. He thought about suggesting they just head back, but was hesitant because he knew how happy Richie was that he’d finally gone along with one of his runaway ideas, but before he had the chance to say anything Richie was moving.

Dropping his magazine to the ground, he first pulled the sleeping bag up and tighter around them, and then shimmied his arms back underneath and reached for Eddie. He folded him in his arms, the hammock swinging a bit from the commotion, and then rubbed his hands over Eddie’s shoulders, a concentrated sort of look on his face. Their noses were barely two inches apart.

Eddie felt something in the pit of his stomach for the second time that night, but while he couldn’t quite pin down what it was, he knew it wasn’t fear this time.

They fell asleep like that, or at least Eddie did. Richie didn’t sleep all that much, mostly just looked at Eddie, or out into the dimly lit corners of the clubhouse with a dumb grin on his face.

They nearly got caught by Sonia sneaking back into Eddie’s room the next morning, but they both thought it’d been worth it.


	2. Pt. 2

Richie was torn. 

He was psyched, of course, to finally be getting out of stupid Derry. Thrilled that he’d be across the country, away from all the shitty parts of youth that everyone wants to leave behind. To say sayonara to Maggie, at least until winter break. (Less so to good old Wentworth, because he and his dad did have their moments.) He was genuinely excited about his school, and about California in general. He was doing what he always said he would, and there was a sort of vindication to that.

He was also a total wreck, though. He was terrified that out there in the real world he wouldn’t be able to keep pace with people who were much better at adulting. Stressed that he wouldn’t be able to cut it, y’know, actually trying to do what he wanted and figuring out his own life. He was nervous he wouldn’t fit in anywhere but a rinky dink New England town, with a specific band of dorks. Even more, he was scared to be without them. Without Eddie. All of them, of course, but… Eddie, he was a particular point of concern.

Selfishly, he didn’t want to be far away from him. Didn’t want it to be impossible for him to sneak out in the middle of the night and go wake him up and annoy him. Didn’t want to go without seeing him.

But more than that, he didn’t wanna leave Eddie alone. Since they’d met, they’d never gone more than a week or so away from each other. They’d never been alone.

Eddie wouldn’t be alone-alone, not really, the other Losers who were still around Derry would be there for him. Richie had already told them they better keep an eye on him when he left. And of course they would, he knew that.

He just  _ also _ knew that it was never Stan or Mike or Bev or Bill or Ben who Eddie called when his mother was being especially A Lot. It wasn’t ever them who held Eddie when he was having a panic attack. It was just different.

There was also so much that Richie had never gotten around to **doing**, that he hadn’t forced himself to say...

This huge contradictory mess of emotions was weighing on Richie’s mind as he leaned on the back edge of his car, which sat full of most of the stuff he cared about. He kicked at the cement of his driveway with the toe of his shoe, thinking–  _ this fuckin’ blows _ .

It was just as this thought was sinking right through to the core of him that Eddie, Eduardo, speak of the devil, the man himself, came walking up the pavement. It kinda hurt to see him, but mostly it felt like when you’re having a bad day but then the sun shines extra bright and a bird chirps and you see a little kid laughing or something and for a second you feel like nothing that’s got you worried matters and life is beautiful and everything is gonna be okay.

...

_ Wow, gross much, Rich? _

“Did you already finish packing everything?” Eddie asked warmly, leaning against the car next to Richie, and peeking in through the rear window.

“Pretty much. Everything ‘cept me.” He answered with a tired sigh, crossing his arms and not meeting his friends gaze.

Nodding, Eddie just looked down. They stood there and let time go by in quiet. Richie wondered if Eddie could hear his heart  **aching** .

“You know something, I’m really gonna miss you.” Eddie said, breaking the silence. He was looking up at Richie with genuine tenderness in his eyes, but also something pretty sad. And there was a sort of finality to the way he said it. 

Richie felt like crying, but he didn’t wanna break down on Eddie, so he held it together and just took him by the shoulders and looked him in the eye.

“Eds, I’m gonna miss the  _ hell  _ outta you. Who’s gonna make sure I always have emergency band-aids in my backpack??? Nobody but you, ya sorry son of a bitch! So, you have to come visit, whenever you can. Check that I haven’t gotten into too much trouble.” 

Somehow, as he said this, Eddie just looked sadder. And he didn’t even get mad about the nickname.

“Of course, Richie.” He replied, giving him a small smile. But he didn’t sound like he really believed it. He sounded like someone who knew he wasn’t ever gonna see him again. Which wasn’t true, Richie was sure, but it freaked him out nonetheless.

He pulled Eddie in for a hug, so fast and close that he nearly knocked his chin into the top of his head. He held him so that his cheek was against Richie’s shoulder. Eddie’s fingers curled tightly into his shirt where his hands had fallen, one at Richie’s chest and the other on his side. This simple movement had Richie’s heart in his throat. He pulled Eddie a little tighter, his stomach doing flips. His eyes brimming with stupid tears.

“I mean it, seriously.” He muttered into Eddie’s hair.

There was a pause, and Richie could swear he might’ve heard a sniffle. His chest clenched.

“Shut up, Richie.” Eddie mumbled back.

He couldn’t help but smile.


	3. Pt. 3

Eddie had just been passing through the living room where his wife Myra was flipping through channels, headed to get a glass of water from the kitchen before returning to some work he was trying to get done in his office, when the smallest flash of a face and clip of a voice struck him to his bones. He just about flung himself over the back of the couch to reach for the remote in her hands.

“Eddie, what on  _ earth _ are you doing?” She asked, leaning away from him and looking at him like he was insane.

“Go back, like two channels, honey, please— I could  _ swear _ I, I don’t really know, just do it!” He said, damn near frantic.

She complied, but Eddie didn’t see what he thought he’d seen, and even though she was at a loss as to what had him so worked up, she could see her husband was distraught that she hadn’t found what he was looking for. She handed him the remote, mild concern on her face as he snatched it away with barely a look in her direction.

He flicked up and down a few channels a couple times, searching, and then there it was. The familiar smile, the familiar eyes. The familiar  ** _feeling_ ** that had caught him so off guard so suddenly. Eddie wasn’t sure what it was that he was remembering and forgetting all at once, but he knew it had something to do with the guy whose picture was on his screen.

“Live from San Antonio, we’re back with Richie “Trashmouth” Tozier, who’s recording his show tonight – soon to be available on several streaming platforms, ladies and gentlemen and everyone else, give it up for this comedic genius, and then shut up and enjoy the show!” Some announcer said, Eddie only half listening. The image faded from a sort of title card to live footage, and the sound of an audience.

** _Richie!_ **

_ “T r a s h m o u t h” ?  _

_ Richie… Richie Tozier… why was that name so familiar? _

A tall, scruffy, floppy-haired man in a colorful shirt walked out onto the stage, knocking back half a plastic water bottle as he did, and cleared his throat loudly. And then he grabbed the mic.

“Wow, you’re all still here. Really thought that bit about me not understanding the appeal of podcasts before intermission would’ve drove everyone under the age of 35 out of their seats. Okay, since you’re still here, I’m assuming you want some comedy? Let me tell you about the time my girlfriend caught me masturbating to my ex’s Facebook page, that one's a real  _ doozy _ .” He did some sort of a posh accent at the end, and the audience roared laughing. 

Eddie chuckled, but it was less because he thought the joke was gonna be funny, and more, sort of, nervously. He was thinking as the bit set up went on, as Richie kept talking,  _ you could do better than this _ , and he didn’t know why. He had just started watching this. He had no basis for thinking that. At least... not that he knew of?

Myra crossed her arms.

“Since when do you like stand-up, Eddie?”

He didn’t even begin to move his eyes from the screen, just waved a hand at her.

“I think I know this guy, I just don’t know how.”

With every word he listened to him speak, he was more sure he  _ did _ know him, but nothing seemed to come to mind to clarify that sense of familiarity at all. It just sat there, all intense and vague.

Myra seemed unimpressed.

“He’s not very funny, I don’t think. Did you go to college with him?”

Eddie was still entranced, barely listening to her.

“The jokes only sort of sound like him, but the fact that he’s a comedian makes sense. He fuckin’  _ would  _ be.” He said mostly to himself. Then he belatedly processed his wife’s comment. “No, I don’t think so.”

She huffed at him, and went to go watch tv in bed, since clearly Eddie had commandeered the living room. He hardly noticed her go.

When the program ended about 45 minutes later, Eddie was no closer to even guessing how he knew this Richie Tozier, but he had at some point come to the conclusion that he was still funny, but less funny than he remembered, and he thought that might be because the jokes weren’t all his own. Couldn’t explain why, though.

He tried not to dwell too hard on the strangeness of the evening as he climbed into bed and fell asleep that night, but it must not have worked too well, because he dreamt that night about being wrapped up tightly in pale, lanky arms.


	4. Pt. 4

For just about as long as he could remember, Richie felt like something was missing. He hated to ever say that to anyone, because it sounded so stupid.  _ Oh _ ,  _ the well-off B-lister comedian feels like something is missing from his life? Boo hoo, wah wah, fucking pathetic. _ But it was true.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like his job. Because he did! He definitely put less into it than he probably could if he wanted to be super authentic or whatever, but he didn’t dread his shows or anything else that came with his career of choice. His manager could be a dick, but not so much that he even disliked the guy. And he liked his house. He liked his car, his clothes, the attention he got.

He just felt like there was an emptiness in part of his brain and his heart. And maybe that was depression, or maybe it was a mid-life crisis? Maybe both, maybe neither. He couldn’t be sure. But he didn’t remember  _ not  _ feeling it. Which seemed weird because some blurry edge of his mind told him there was a time he didn’t, but he couldn’t ever nail it down.

He tried not to let it bother him in the day to day. Because, again, he had a  _ good life _ . 

  
  
  


And then he got a call from Mike Hanlon.

  
  


...

  
  


At first he had no idea who the guy was. And then he started shaking.

What came to him first was a sense of dread. He didn’t know  _ of what _ , exactly, but as he listened to Mike and agreed to come back to Derry, it got heavier and heavier until it was a gnarly, twisting feeling that made Richie sick. Literally.

He hurled up his lunch over the side of a fire escape railing it was so much.

And the fear wouldn’t leave him as he gave a rather lackluster delivery of his entire set at his show that day, but it wasn’t until he was packing his car and preparing to actually go back to Derry, that he really let himself  ** _think_ ** .

He’d agreed to return out of an indeterminable feeling that he was  _ obligated _ to. And Mike, who he had just the vaguest memories of knowing and being close to, had made it sound really urgent, so of course he would go. It wasn’t that big of a deal, just a reunion with old friends. Not that he could really picture any faces, or that his brain was supplying him with more than a few names. But still. Reminiscing could be a good thing, right?

And that was the thing. The deep, painful fear he felt, coupled with a quite crushing wave of anxiety he hadn’t experienced in a long time, they sucked, but they weren’t all that had suddenly opened up inside him. A very small part of him knew, without really knowing, that he had to go back because the only way he would ever stop feeling those empty spaces he always felt inside would be if he went and found out what was supposed to fit in them.

As he hit the road to make the long drive, he was straining to come up with even a slight notion of what the missing pieces were, the not super scary ones, the just regular old lost memories that he was starting to wonder how he ever didn’t realize were a problem not to have there. No matter how hard he concentrated, though, he could only just barely reach one fragment of a thought, he couldn’t even be sure it  _ was _ a  _ memory _ .

It was an impression— just a blurry picture of what it felt like to hold some...thing?  **Someone? **

Holding, and feeling like he could float,  _ but not in the bad way. _

He had no idea what the fuck this was supposed to mean, or what the locked parts of his mind were really hiding, but he knew that if he was gonna find out it was gonna be in stupid Derry.


	5. Pt. 5

Meeting everyone again all at once was chaos. Good chaos, but still chaos. It was overwhelming.

Eddie simultaneously felt like he knew the people he was sitting around the  _ Jade _ table with better than he knew anything else, himself included, and also like he barely knew them at all. But it was getting clearer the longer they were together. He’d get a whole flood of memories out of someone just laughing, or a face they made.

He could see Beverly distracting the gross old pharmacy guy while he carried an armful of first aid supplies, he could feel the sun on his bare skin and the rocky surface beneath his feet that time at the quarry, or the cool but cozy damp of their clubhouse, he could hear the sound of Bill stuttering out plans for the Losers, and the way Stan would get frustrated and yell at Richie—OH and  ** _Richie!_ **

Lots of memories of Richie were coming back. In pieces, all jumbled, but a lot of them. Almost all of ‘em sort of gold tinged, in a way, if that made any sense. He wondered if the same was happening for Richie. 

He wondered if Richie knew  _ anything _ about him all these years, or if Eddie was a rare case—finding his comedy specials and having just a hint of him still in his life. Nobody else brought up anything like that. Which was weird, he thought, considering Bill and Ben and Beverly were pretty successful, too. But because no one else said anything, Eddie didn’t mention that he had known  _ of _ Richie even if he didn’t  _ know _ him. For a few years.

It didn’t really matter, because he doubted Richie had heard of him, let alone remembered him, in all these years. His job wasn’t exactly the kind to bring a man notoriety. Which was alright by him, though he certainly wouldn’t say it was all too exciting work (which Richie pointed out and made fun of him for). He was good at it. It paid the bills. It was fine. Adulthood isn’t a dream come true, that’s not how it works.

But everyone seemed good, mostly, and though it was weird to think of how much time they had all lost, that made him glad. He might not know everything about his friends (again and/or yet), but he knew they deserved to be doing good. And he couldn’t be sure about them, but to him the catching up felt like taking a deep breath when you step out into fresh air after having been cooped up indoors for too long.

He’d just been doing some answering and talking about himself when Richie looked to him, an unreadable expression on his face.

“So wait, Eddie, you got  _ married _ ?” He sounded incredulous. 

Eddie felt himself responding before he even had time to think.

“Yeah. Why’s that so fuckin’ funny, dickwad?” His brows were knit. The corner of Richie’s mouth upturned.

“What, to, like, a woman?”

Eddie’s cheeks felt hot in that kinda way it does when you get teased when you’re little. Which was fitting, because it was  _ Richie _ . But he hadn’t gone all warm in actual years. It was a trip. He hoped it didn’t show.

“Fuck you, bro.” He replied, coolly. Totally cool.

Richie chuckled, seeming unphased. 

_ S e e m i n g. _

“Fuck YOU!” He shouted back, cracking himself up. This got the other Losers’ attention. Eddie made a face at him.

Everyone was joining in on this conversation now, all grinning.

“Alright, what about you, Trashmouth? You married?” Bill asked.

“There’s no  _ WAY _ Richie’s married!” Beverly began, and everybody else chimed in in agreement, in disbelief, a chorus of voices. Eddie figured they were probably right. Not because he couldn’t get someone if he wanted, he was plenty fucking good looking, stupidly charming as ever, and obviously his being successful helped too. But more because Eddie couldn’t picture a person who’d be right with Richie. Couldn’t see anyone… anyone in particular  _ fitting _ right by his side. 

Richie looked around soberly.

“No I am, I  _ am! _ No, I got married.”

“Richie, I don’t believe it.”

“When?”

“You didn’t hear this?” He sounded quietly surprised, excited. He glanced about.

“No.” Eddie answered, causing Richie to turn.

“You didn’t know I got married?” His eyes were big. 

Eddie briefly, passingly, wondered why he hadn’t heard about this, since he had heard about Richie’s upcoming tour dates and stuff on some online news thing, still kind of processing.

“No.”

Richie cracked into a big lopsided smile.

“No, yeah, me and Your Mom are very very happy together!” As everyone at the table erupted laughing, Bill spitting up his drink, he did too. 

“You  _ totally  _ fell for it!”

Eddie blinked.

“ _ Fuck  _ you.”

As everyone continued laughing and chatting, Eddie let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, and found himself amused, too. It seemed to him in that moment that he was young again,  _ like they had been. _ Like nothing had changed. He rolled his eyes at Richie, which felt as familiar as the beat of his own heart, and laughed just a little.

The jokes went on for a while, at his expense (or rather, mostly his mother’s), and at everyone else’s, and Eddie felt more relaxed than he had in a very long time.

Richie looked like he couldn’t  _ be _ any happier, and when they were sitting near each other (after drunkenly arm wrestling, Eddie jokingly suggesting they take their “shirts off and kiss” in the midst of it, for reasons he himself could not begin to fathom), hooked his arm around Eddie’s shoulder, pulling him in, still wearing a cheeky expression on his dumb face. 

Eddie had the weirdest vague sensation of remembering an old dream as he rested his hand on Richie’s slung-over, still lanky arm. Or at least the feeling that came with the mostly forgotten dream. A feeling of belonging. 

Of  **home** .


	6. Pt. 6

“I don’t write my own material.” Richie had said, dismissively. 

He didn’t think anyone would care much about whether or not he was a huge sellout or  _ whatever _ , because why would they? Especially after the horror-clown fortune cookie realness they’d just experienced, and him yelling at that poor unwitting kid. They had bigger shit going on. And even if they would, nobody knew they used to know him until that day, so it’s not like they would have anything to  _ really _ say. They didn’t know his work. 

Or so he thought.

** _“I _ ** **knew** ** _ it! I fucking knew it!”_ **

...

Richie didn’t say anything just then, because they were headed out, and everyone was very concerned about the creepy message they’d gotten about Stan.

And things worsened when they found out what  _ had  _ happened.

Richie felt sad and angry at once.

And then it was just like that time when they were kids, Richie was remembering as he was watching it unfold, after the first trip to the Neibolt house, when the group was crumbling apart out of fear and disagreement. (Richie had been very upset at the suggestion that they try again, he recalled, because Eddie had fallen through the floor _for fucks sake, and— _he almost laughed aloud, despite the situation, as it occurred to him that he got punched in the face by Bill last time this To Do or Not to Do argument happened.) It was all repeat.

They all just wanted to go home. Not to let the bad back in.

Richie, too. Sure he’d had a fun night up until their fortunes were rigged and tiny monsters crawled out of their after dinner treats, but that did not mean he wanted to jog down memory lane and roll right on into Lake Childhood Trauma again. He was out,  _ so  _ out.

But Eddie’s comment stuck out to him, and for good reason.

What the  _ hell  _ did he  _ mean,  _ he  _ “knew it” _ ?!

So when they got back to the Derry Townhouse, everyone there to get their stuff and get outta dodge, Richie quickly grabbed his bag from his room and then went to Eddie’s.

Apparently, Eddie had started to unpack when he’d arrived earlier, because now he was repacking a duffle with what seemed to be  _ only  _ medication, and had another bag with more normal contents sitting open on the bed as well. Richie tapped a knock on the door frame with the side of his shoe and just walked in.

“Hey,” he greeted. Eddie looked at him over his shoulder. (Richie felt a slight pang in his chest, and had to stop his mind from going off on a tangent about how it made him feel to see little Eddie with his new, slightly broader shoulders, just generally filled in all around, a  _ man _ now–)

“Hey, Rich, what’s up?” He replied distractedly, but warmly. Richie came over and sat on the end of the bed.

“I was thinking about what you said back at the restaurant, and I have to say, it threw me for a loop.”

“I swear to god,” Eddie started, pausing to pinch his nose bridge, “if you came here just to make another joke about me being married, I’m gonna kill you.”

Richie cackled, waving a hand.

“No, dude, though I definitely  _ could _ . I meant what you said about my not writing my stuff—what the fuck were you talking about, you “knew”?”

Eddie stilled. His hands stopped mid-shoving an orange plastic pill bottle into a side pocket of his bag, and then slowly lowered to his sides. He peeked at Richie, who was arching a brow, now.

“Uh, well… Your specials have been on TV, y’know, and so I’ve caught a few of ‘em. Here and there. I didn’t know that I _knew_ _you_, obviously, but yeah.” Eddie attempted a nonchalant shrug as he explained, but Richie was grinning from ear to ear like an idiot.

“Oh my god, you’re a  _ fan! _ ” He busted out laughing so hard he nearly wheezed, reaching up and grabbing Eddie’s shoulder like a lifeline as he did. 

Eddie was red, eyebrows scrunched, crossing his arms. Trying to shake Richie off, but not really.

“Hey,  _ whoa  _ man, I didn’t— that’s not what I— just because I’ve seen recordings of your shows does not make me a fan! I’ve seen movies with Arnold Schwarzenegger in them, it doesn’t mean I’m a fan! He’s whatever,  _ it’s whatever _ ! Besides, what I said was that I could tell you didn’t write your own jokes! That was because you’re not as funny on stage as you are in person, shithead!” Eddie flipped him off, but Richie was still chuckling.

He couldn’t believe Eddie was still so cute. No, he could, actually, but he couldn’t believe he was still pathetic enough to go all soft because of it. He felt like melting, which was bizarre. He was a grown ass man.

He made ridiculous doe eyes at Eddie, smiling.

“Awww, Eds, you think I’m funny? I’m honored, had no idea you felt that way.” He pulled Eddie down to sit beside him on the bed, looping his arm around his shoulders. Those grown-up shoulders. Under  _ his _ arm. 

“Shut up, don’t call me that.” Eddie replied, mouth twitching like he was struggling not to smile back. “Of course you’re funny, dumbass, you almost had Beverly peeing herself at dinner tonight. Now get  _ off _ me, I gotta pack.”

He said that, but they both lingered, leaning into each other for a few moments longer, before either one moved.


	7. Pt. 7

Eddie knew they  _ all _ had a strange feeling in their hearts as they stood, basically having to crouch now so they didn’t hit the ceiling, in the clubhouse and remembered the past. They all felt Stan’s absence. They all felt the lost time. Felt the bittersweet tang of childhood memories, with the reality of their present fear looming over it all.

But Eddie felt…  **weird** .

On the way there, he’d talked to Richie about his wife. Because he’d asked. About his  _ wife _ .

It was a normal thing to do, and yet Eddie felt like there wasn’t anything more strange in the world. And he felt out of place, somehow, answering.

But he described her, showed some pictures from his phone, talked about how they met. Complained about her being controlling, and whatnot. A lot. Too much. He danced around saying outright that it wasn’t exactly a  _ happy  _ marriage. But casually, though. Of course. Richie listened and commented here and there, seemed to feel for him, but was quieter than usual. Didn’t crack any jokes.

Now, they both were hunched over, looking around the clubhouse with everyone else.

Eddie’s eyes kept drifting to the hammock. To the past.

It was quiet as everyone thought about what was ahead of them, the danger that was in store. And about the hours spent in the clubhouse all those years ago. And everything that had happened since.

It was all pretty somber.

And then—

  
  
  


“Hey Losers, time to float.”

  
  
  


Everyone held their breath, tense.

  
  


…

  
  


And then Richie laughed.

  
  


“Aw, fuck,  _ Rich!” _

He almost wheezed.

“ _ Dude! _ ”

“Remember when he used to say that shit?” He asked, walking out of the shadows wearing a doofy grin. Everyone was staring incredulously.

“And then he’d do that little dance– ber ber ner wer ber ner ner ner wer ber ner ber –am I the only one who remembers this shit?” He continued, his arms swinging.

He promptly got hit with five glares and a few muttered judgements. Eddie shook his head.

“Are you gonna be like this the entire time we’re home?”

He’d said  _ home _ . He wasn’t sure what he meant by that. 

Riche had his hands up.

“Alright, sorry. Was just tryna add some levity to this shit. I’ll go fuck myself.” He said dryly, and whistled as he tucked his hands in his pockets and turned away.

Eddie narrowed his eyes at Richie’s back. He thought, just maybe, that Richie seemed nervous.

Of course he was, they were all scared, but he knew Richie and he thought it might be something other than just the threat of a killer clown from space that was bothering him.

And Eddie could see it even more as Mike told them they all had to go find their lost memories and tokens. Alone. Eddie watched Richie’s face pale. He was trying to play it off, but Eddie could  _ tell _ .

They both suggested sticking together instead of splitting up, but Mike was insistent, and nobody else offered up the same resistance, so they accepted it. But Eddie found Richie pacing near a tree close to the clubhouse before they all went their separate ways.

Richie pushed his glasses up his face as Eddie approached, and for a second he saw the scrawny Hawaiian-shirt wearing kid he  _ used to be _ standing before him. He smiled a small smile at that thought, watching as Richie tucked his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

“‘Sup?”

Eddie shrugged.

“Oh, not much, just gearing up to tackle our collective childhood nightmare. You?”

“No  _ way _ , same! Really excited to relive the trauma, y’know? I hear exposure therapy does  _ wonders _ for the pysche.” Richie laughed, but it was a shaky kind of laugh. The kind you do when your nerves are flared up. 

Eddie stepped closer, squeezing Richie’s arms.

“You know, we can still go together, if you want. I won’t tell Mike if you don’t.” He offered. Richie’s eyes looked tender, at that, and he made no move to step away from Eddie’s hold, but he snorted.

“I appreciate that, man. But I think he’s right. I probably do need to face my demons or whatever the fuck on my own. If you need backup when you do yours, though, I got you. I think you can handle it, but still. I’m here for you. Too.” He averted his gaze as he spoke, and sorta wiggled his nose, like an awkward almost-sniffle.

Eddie let his hands slide down Richie’s arms, gentle, before dropping back to his sides and flexing there, nervously.

“See you on the other side, then?” He said. Richie nodded.

“See ya then, Spaghetti.”


	8. Pt. 8

Richie had known, primarily because of the nauseating well of anxiety and fear in his stomach that had exponentially grown as soon as Mike said they had to go alone and remember more of what they forgot and find symbolic fuckin’ tokens, that this was gonna be a bad time.

He knew where it was that he needed to go pretty quickly though, because a piercing chill struck him as he approached and spotted the place while just walking down the street. And of course that meant he probably had a reason, that he couldn’t fully remember, to feel that way. But he didn’t know what he was getting into.

He already felt cold and sweaty just stepping into the Capitol and seeing the broken, dusty arcade machines. Glass crunched underfoot, and even though he was still on edge he couldn’t help but feel sort of sad to see the place abandoned and rundown. There were prickles of positive memories at the back of his mind that hadn’t quite come to him yet, but it wasn’t hard to imagine himself hanging out and playing videogames. With his friends.  _ A million years ago. _

He walked over to a token machine by the wall, rifling in his pocket for some change as he did. Just to see if it worked, still.

As a game token clinked out, Richie remembered.

First he got brief flickers of stuff that wasn’t so bad. Playing games alone.  _ Hours _ of Streetfighter. Something-something photobooth. Bill coming to get him here that one time, just to have him sit watch outside Bev’s apartment. Laughter.

But then…

He remembered Bowers’ cousin.

It had been during essentially the worst time that summer. Which was maybe ridiculous, in hindsight, considering the child eating monster parts, but that was how Richie had felt nonetheless. 

Since Eddie had gotten his arm broken at Neibolt, his mom had kept him on pretty tight lockdown. Richie was able to see him a few times, when Sonia was otherwise occupied enough that she wasn’t actively staring at her son muttering  _ Eddie-bear _ (a nickname Richie would never forgive her for permanently ruining, damnit, because it actually was pretty cute). But those times were brief, sparse, and tense with Eddie’s fear of their getting caught. There was no more near-daily time wasting together. That was what summer was for, and they couldn’t have it. Which sucked.

And sure he hungout with good ol’ Stan the Man still, sometimes, but he seemed just as bummed as Richie. His reasoning was a bit different, though, more related to how he was upset the whole group wasn’t hanging out since he and Richie had sided against Bill in favor of avoiding the whole killer clown problem, but it was basically the same at the core. He missed Bill. And everyone else. 

Richie did too, but he’d  **die** before admitting it. Because he was still mad. And he had  _ every _ right to be, he thought.

Everyone had been so okay with risking themselves and each other for a kid ( _ sorry _ , Bill) who Richie was just  _ sure _ was already dead, and for their piece of shit town. Neither of which were particularly strong motivators in Richie’s mind. Especially considering the vision of Eddie all sickly and vomiting black blood he’d seen, or the actual state poor Eds had been in when his mom took him away, screeching. Not worth it,  _ no sir. _ Big Bill could take his plans and fuck himself with ‘em.

He loved Bill, though. He really did. He’d have fallen onto a pyre for the guy. Hell, he still would! For any one of the Losers, he’d kiss the mortal world goodbye, no questions asked. And it was the same for all of them. That’s what brought him back when they fought the stupid clown that summer, and in some way, brought him back to Derry this time. If they were fighting _for_ **_each other_**, _that_ he could do. Probably.

But all that was later.

In  _ this _ memory, he was alone. 

Not fully, because a kid he’d seen around the Capitol a bit recently was there that day. And they’d caught each other’s eyes hopping from game to game until they ended up both landing on the same one.

Richie found himself peeking at the guy while they played.

He was tanned and blond and smiley, and damn good at Streetfighter. ( _ And not imprisoned by his mother— _ ) And here. At the arcade Richie loved, making his summer suck just a bit less. He had almost completely banished all thoughts of his dead doll-self, all covered in maggots in that stupid tiny casket, in that  _ stupid _ fucking house, from his mind. It was nice.

When the game ended, he wanted to go again. To keep that feeling. Maybe even just to hangout with this guy since he couldn’t hangout with the ones he really wanted to.

And he offered to cover him, so they could play some more, and their hands brushed over the token in a way that felt like _something _and made Richie’s stomach do a dumb little flip, but before he had a chance to even think about what the _fuck_ that was about, his new **_friend_** was turning on him. He started in _hard_.

“I’m not your _fucking_ _boyfriend_!” He was saying, in the end of his little outburst. But it sounded distant, because Richie was well aware that the moment he started acting like this was the same moment that Bowers had appeared, and even more aware that absolutely everyone in the arcade was at least sneaking a glance his way if not openly staring at this exchange. And he loved attention, but this was not the kind he wanted. _Ever_.

_ I’m not I’m not I’m not I’m not I’m— _

He fumbled to defend himself, quickly. To shift away from this very specific accusation that was freezing his blood to fucking slush, and to make some of these eyes look somewhere-fucking-else. But it was a pointless, fruitless attempt.

Bowers was in on it now, and there wasn’t a time when a situation could be escalated that he didn’t escalate it. This time was no exception.

He was _screaming_, a spit-flying kind of hate aimed directly at Richie. He had come to conclusions, pretty much instantly, and was ready to (it was clear from the frighteningly familiar glint in his eye) absolutely **_kill_** Richie over those conclusions if he made one wrong move. Which was of course, fucking terrifying, all by itself, but almost even worse than that, his venemous threats were so _solid_ and _sure_ in their basis that Richie felt like his… his **_everything_** had just been bared and thoroughly established to the entire gaggle of Derry kids crowded into the Capitol. 

He felt like he might puke. Or cry. Or die. Or all three. Simultaneously.

_ Stop stop sTOP— _

So when Bowers instructed him to leave, he complied. 

He ran.

He sat in the park willing himself to stop shaking, to cool off, to stop fucking  _ crying _ before someone came by and reasserted the same claim that had set him off in the first place, but it wasn’t really working out.

And then the fucking Paul Bunyan statue disappeared. And reappeared. And tried to kill him. And nobody saw anything but a tear stained, scared shitless Richie Tozier laying in the grass, looking like a fool.

  
  


All in all, a great day.

  
  


Somehow, while his mind had been racing through this childhood occurrence, Richie had shuffled back outside and across the street to that very park, and was stood looking up at Paul with his brows furrowed. 

This had also been the same park where everyone had talked about their first encounters with  _ It _ . Besides Richie, that is. But they’d also talked about fears. A knot formed in Richie’s throat. He’d said that his was clowns. He’d lied.

_ It had never been clowns. _

What a weird, fucked up life he’d had as a kid.  _ Still _ had. He thought about how weird it really was, that he had had some semblance of normalcy literally  _ yesterday _ . And now...

Someone shoulder checked him and handed him a flyer, and said something he didn’t quite catch but that ended with “ _ handsome” _ .

What timing. A saucy-natured compliment from a small statured, just vaguely effeminate man. 

Whose face was partially decomposed.

...

Richie felt his stomach drop to his toes. He looked down at the paper in his hands, feeling the eerie similarity to that time at Neibolt when he’d been unable to stop himself from freaking out about the missing poster with his face on it.

This wasn’t much different. There was his face again, his current, tired-looking, adult face, and a listing for a funeral service. His blood felt thick and cold, just like it had that summer. He couldn’t help but look up toward the statue again, just to check.

And, uh, there  ** _It _ ** was. Sitting on Paul’s shoulder and grinning a horrible, wet, evil grin at Richie.

What followed was, to put it mildly, fucking  _ awful _ .

He was talking to him, taunting him, singing a mocking little jingle that if it wasn’t twisting Richie’s insides up in horror might’ve been almost funny, and coming closer, but the worst part was that while this was happening he could see that newly recovered dark memory of his playing on repeat on a mental projector of sorts, along with flashes of every heart hammering moment at Neibolt, in the cistern, at the  _ Jade _ the night before, and every little nightmare he’d ever had that struck at the heart of his  _ real  _ deepest fears.

So Richie tried the method he did when he was a kid panicking on the grass.

He squeezed his eyes shut, hard, fists clenched so tight his knuckles turned white, and willed it all to stop. If he didn’t look, if he didn’t pay it any mind, it couldn’t hurt him. It would all go away.

“It’s not  ** _real_ ** _ ! _ ” He was shouting.

But when he opened his eyes again, nothing had changed, and that  _ stupid fucking clown  _ was charging right at him.

So he ran. Just like he’d run from the Capitol all those years ago. He ran with the sound of Pennywise still talking at his back. Then echoing in his mind, when he was far enough away that he couldn’t, shouldn’t hear him say anything more.

_ You can’t just ignore it anymore, Richie, no no no! Gotta face it!  _

_ Gotta face yourself!! _

He ran until Derry blurred around him, until he was sure he wasn’t being followed, until he couldn’t catch his breath. Until he was back at the Derry Townhouse, shoving his hands in his pockets so no one could see how badly he was shaking.

  
  


He was  _ out.  _

For real, this time.

No take backsies, he was g o n e .

  
  


As he shot through the lobby and to the staircase, Bev saw him and he knew she could tell he wasn’t okay, which he hated and loved all at once, but he wasn’t gonna let her stop him. He brushed past and went up the stairs, not wanting to give her the chance to convince him to stay. He just couldn’t.

Thank fuck or whoever that Eddie wasn’t back yet, because Richie knew he probably wouldn’t be able to still sort of keep it together if he was. If he looked him in the eyes and asked what was wrong.

Ben came up after Richie shortly after he got into his room, and his tender gaze and gentle face were almost too much to bear as he relentlessly showered Richie in support and reassurance. It might’ve worked, if Richie had let it sink in at all, but he was purposely tuning most of it out, just letting the warmth sit on the surface of his skin and not any deeper. He told Ben what he wanted to hear. That he wasn’t fine but that he could do this with the power of friendship, or whatever. But it was hollow. As soon as Ben went back down, Richie headed for the back fire escape.

… 

And he made it like halfway to getting out of Derry, for  _ good _ this time, too. He really did.

  
  


But when he drove past the synagogue he couldn’t help but slow, stop, and stare. He couldn’t stop himself.

_ Stan _ .

He went in. He felt almost pulled to do so. He could practically hear the sound of chattering families flooding in the way they had the times he’d been there for or with Stan as a kid as he entered the empty building and walked along the pews. He remembered Stan’s Bar Mitzvah speech up in the center of the room.

Sitting down in a spot he thought might’ve been where he’d sat that very day, Richie thought over that speech. Thought over  _ Stan _ .

He had tried not to dwell on him too much since they’d been back and found out about him… passing. Not because he didn’t care, or anything. Because he cared too much. Whenever he’d snuck into his thoughts, it hurt. 

They’d been best friends. Stan was the only person, he was pretty sure, who  _ fully  _ understood Richie. Even if it parts of that understanding went unspoken. Even if he outwardly seemed to have some of the least patience for Richie’s antics. He knew better.

Richie loved all the Losers, that was a fact. Like gravity. Stuttering Bill was the leader and director and the glue of the gang, Ben the man of both kindness and details, Bev someone he chummed with in a way that he just didn’t with the other guys and who everyone adored because you couldn’t not, Mike was quietly strong, a rock that supported them all unwaveringly, passionately, and Eddie… was  _ Eddie _ . That was something else, too. Obviously. But— Stan. 

Stan was like a brother. 

A Jewish  _ grandma _ of a brother, but a brother nonetheless.

And now Richie’d never get to see how he’d turned out. Who he’d become. He never got to say hello again before he had to say goodbye.

Stan who probably loved them all more than anyone, who wanted nothing more than for them to be safe, and to always be friends. Who wasn’t here.

If it was true that if they didn’t take It down, the same would happen to them all, Richie couldn’t leave. And even if it wasn’t true, he guessed he already knew he couldn’t  _ really _ take that chance. He could handle being a sacrifice himself, but he couldn’t go with the thought that his friends might lose and not even be there to do it with them.

A brief flicker of Eddie’s disembodied head asking Richie to play loogie at Neibolt popped in his head, and he had the terrible mental image of Eddie dying alone like Stan. And that couldn’t happen. It just couldn’t.

So he got back in his car and started for the library, where he hoped he could catch a moment to take Eddie into his arms and check that he was still solid and real and okay, and clear that thought from his mind.


	9. Pt. 9

Before rushing to catch Bill at Neibolt, the rest of the Losers had the briefest of respite in which to catch their breath at the library. 

Eddie was freaking out making sure Richie was okay after having just axed Bowers in the head (he definitely wasn’t, but he was making jokes about it that were the kind that told Eddie he was coping, at least), but Richie was much more concerned about Eddie.

“What the fuck happened to your  _ face? _ ” He asked, taking ahold of his head and turning it so he could look closely at the blood seeping into the gauze on his cheek. Eddie looked at him from the corner of his eye, heart skipping a beat at the uninhibited concern in Richie’s expression, and swallowed.

“Bowers stuck a knife in it. Crazy, right? I’m hoping the scar will make me look roguishly handsome.” He said, trying to find a way to be light, despite the circumstances. Richie barked a single laugh.

“There’s no way it won’t, but uh,” he inhaled harshly, “it’s a good thing he’s already dead, or I’d fucking kill him. Again.” He spoke flatly. He was serious. Eddie pushed his shoulder, but also felt warm from his face to his feet.

“Shut up, I’m fine, man. Bev cleaned me up. How’re you holding up? You look white and sweaty.” He touched Richie’s forehead, and then the side of his neck, feeling his clamminess. Fingers lingering.

Richie turned a little pink in the face, and scratched the back of his head.

“Honestly, I almost  _ left _ after I found my token. It was bad, dude, like  _ really _ bad. But… I’m not going anywhere. I’m seeing this shit through, however it goes down.” He said with resolve. And then added, “And I look like this because I definitely blew chunks after splitting Bowers’ skull.”

...

“Gross.”

“I  _ know,  _ right?” He said with a hysterical sort of smile.

Eddie couldn’t help but struggle to restrain a manic chuckle in response.

They might’ve said more, but it was soon after this that they tried to get Bill to come to the library, too, only to find out that the kid from the  _ Jade  _ had got gotten, and he was gonna try and go it alone fighting Pennywise. Which wasn’t happening.

When they got to that crumbling old house, everything happened very quickly. They told Bill they were all doing this together, Richie reiterated his childhood assertion that they would kill this fucking clown, and in they went.

Unsurprisingly, things went downhill fast.

Much like when he’d been a child shaking and clutching his arm in a heap on the floor,  _ It _ decided coming out of a broken old fridge was the move. And Eddie was stricken to the core with fright, instantly. The present situation layered with that memory was enough to already have his chest restricting painfully, not to even mention the fact that it hurt his, and everybody else’s, heart to see the face of Stan all mangled and horrible for the purpose of harassing and attacking them. He felt out of control, like that time in the garage with the maps and the projector. And thinking about  _ that _ didn’t help either.

He was having a panic attack.

Not just freaking out, which he did (arguably) often, but actually having a panic attack. The kind that made him briefly question if maybe he really did have asthma after all, they were so bad— he really couldn’t catch his breath.

Richie seemed to notice this, despite the chaos of the current moment, because as soon as Stan’s head was briefly out of sight, he was rushing over to him and asking him if he was alright. 

Eddie couldn’t get a word out in response before it dropped from above and took Richie down to the floor.

He wanted to scream, to do something, to have it in him to be the guy that could rush in and get Richie free—mostly he just really wanted everything to stop, to just go  _ home _ . But he couldn’t move his feet, couldn’t form the words he wanted to shout, and any hint of a scream was trapped in his throat.

He just quivered in the corner while Bill tried to save Richie alone.

Thank  _ fuck  _ for Ben, showing up and taking care of Stan’s disembodied head, and for helping make sure Richie was alright (which did wash a wave of relief through Eddie’s still vibrating-with-fear body), because he couldn’t stand to think about what could’ve happened if he hadn’t.

Bill was  _ pissed.  _

He came after Eddie, white knuckled as he shook his shoulders, yelling about how Richie could’ve died. Like he didn’t fucking  _ know that _ . Like his gut wasn’t churning ferociously. He felt childish and stupid, pathetic, weak, and really really  _ hurt _ . Tears pricked at his eyes as he met Bill’s intense gaze and begged him not to be mad. He was just a fucking coward. He didn’t need anyone else to point it out to him. He knew.

Worse than that, though, was the trek down into the sewers and through them. Obviously it was disgusting, but that he had expected. What sucked was that Richie stuck near him. And wasn’t the slightest bit mad about what’d happened. In fact he seemed a million times more invested in making sure  _ Eddie _ was good. With how the Stan-monster thing went down, with dealing with having been shouted at by Bill, with coping in general, even with wading in the stupid grey water.

How well intentioned and genuine Richie was being with him just made Eddie more sick with guilt.

And it didn’t improve when he was still so shaken by everything that had happened and  _ was _ happening that he couldn’t budge to help get Bev back when she was yanked underwater in the cistern, either. Tears started welling again, and he really wished that he could wake up from this dumb lifelong nightmare and just be allowed to have a normal fucking life, where nobody wanted to hurt him or his friends.

Everyone else worked together, got her, while Eddie just shivered and panicked.

And then they were supposed to just go, no hesitation, right into It’s lair. Armed with nothing but some old Native American  _ bucket _ and a bunch of trinkets that reminded them all of the worst summer of their lives. They all seemed ready. Everyone except Eddie.

He frantically grabbed at Richie’s elbow.

The guilt in the pit of his stomach bubbled out into his words, and he felt bad even as he explained that he  _ couldn’t do it _ , that the person he was dumping it on was the very person he let down, the person he didn’t deserve to be forgiven and comforted by, like it was nothing, but he couldn’t help it.

Anxiety peaking again, he reached for the inhaler he brought and went to use it just like he had as a child. Like a crutch. Something imaginary to lean on.

But Richie was reaching out.

As was the norm for them, the instinct, they squabbled for a moment as Richie tried to wrestle the inhaler away. But when he was successful, Eddie met his eyes and saw the affection there. It kinda stung, but it also made him feel warm.

Richie gave him a pep talk. Littered with jokes, because it was Richie, after all, but still.

“You’re braver than you think,” he said.

And because he said it, Eddie believed it.


End file.
